


Cedar

by moonbobjohnson



Category: True Detective
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28547721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonbobjohnson/pseuds/moonbobjohnson
Summary: Tom runs over the familiar lines of prayers and half-remembered imagery from holy cards in his mind until they’re smoothed out as a worry stone. Sometimes it works, gives him a handhold to cling to, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes he thinks of Roland instead.
Relationships: Tom Purcell/Roland West
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9
Collections: Scoot McNairy's Forehead Veins Appreciation Society Secret Santa Exchange





	Cedar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JackieHJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackieHJ/gifts).



_**1985** _

It gets bad every time, around the end of the year. The long, cold decline into the darker months, toward the week in November his kids went missing, years ago now. Halloween—shutting himself up in the dark rather than look outside to see the happy kids, the masked faces. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s—didn’t mean much to him ‘til the kids came along, when those days started to mean keeping things civil as best he could with Lucy, just to see them happy over holiday traditions he followed the steps of while drunk more often than not. The holidays an excuse for him and Lucy both to get a little drunker, to break out the good booze instead of beer. He could think of one New Year’s Eve, the celebration in New York on the television, him and Lucy already well and plastered. The alcohol was easing the tension instead of building it up for once, and he’d grabbed Lucy’s hand and swung her into an impromptu waltz. The music on the television, the kids laughing, even Lucy flashing a brief, crooked grin. It was good, sometimes.

He clutches his most recent sobriety chip in hand, head bowed. Sometimes things were good, tempered through the haze of alcohol. The kids were alive. Sure, things between him and Lucy were cracking a little further year after year, the kids hiding in their bedrooms while they screamed at each other. But it wasn’t so bad with a drink in hand. The alcohol always made things more manageable. He forces the thought from his mind, mumbles prayers, tightens his grip on the plastic disk. There’s always something held in his hands now—the chips, his bible, a rosary—anything to cling to other than the neck of a bottle. Bible studies on Sundays, after church conversations in the bland parish hall with a cup of lukewarm coffee in hand. Steps two and three. A greying community hall full of tired men and women like him, admitting to their powerlessness in the face of alcohol. Running over familiar lines of prayers and half-remembered holy card images in his mind like smoothed out worry stones. Sometimes it works, gives him a handhold to cling to, sometimes it doesn’t.

Sometimes, he thinks of Detective West instead. Thinks of how he’d come running when Tom had finally broken down and called. How things had been so fucked back then that he’d collapsed against him and cried into his shirtfront (something he never would’ve allowed himself in the past). He’d felt Detective West’s surprise, the way his back had stiffened. Tom expected to be gently dislodged or pushed away, but Detective West had relaxed and slipped a warm arm around him, patted his back instead. _Easy, easy there, Mr. Purcell. It’s alright, we’ll get you some help, okay? Whatever you need._ His voice low and firm, reassuring. How easy it had been to just let go. To relent. To finally ask for the help he’d fought tooth and nail against asking for, for so damn long. It got easier, between hitting rock bottom and attending AA, to ask for help. He’s got a sponsor, an older man, ex-military who hasn’t seen his kids in a good ten years after his drinking got so bad that his wife took them and left. And there’s still Detective West. He’s never thought of the detective as a saint, just a good man—a better man than himself. Never imagined him as one of those holy card images, halo and all. If anything, when he thinks of Detective West, he thinks of him in his more human moments. Shuffling out of his bedroom in flannel pajama pants and a worn out t-shirt, mussed hair, voice gravelly from just waking, asking Tom if he wanted coffee. Just a man.

When the prayers and the little flat plastic disk in his hand can’t seem push away the rising urge in him to walk the couple blocks to the closest liquor store, he grabs his car keys and aims his headlights toward Fayetteville. It’s only a half hour’s drive, maybe even less this time of night, but each liquor store or bar he passes on the way is a temptation whispering _just pull over here and have a few instead of making a fool outta yourself by showing up on Detective West’s doorstep, again._ He pushes the thought away. He’s been getting better at that lately. Instead he thinks of the last time he saw Detective West, a month or so back, playing catch up over a diner breakfast before both their shifts. When Tom had handed Detective West his one month sobriety chip, a pleased smile had lit across his face. Before they’d gone their separate ways, he’d swung an arm around Tom and clapped him on the shoulder. Told him to _keep on hanging in there._

He parks along the street, tucking his hands into his coat pockets as he makes his way up to Detective West’s apartment. Just the lit up window is a comfort in itself. His first knock doesn’t get a response, though he can hear the muffled drone of the television inside. When he knocks again, there’s movement—footsteps and low grumbling—before the door swings open. Detective West leans against the door frame, face pinched with annoyance, though his expression lifts at the sight of Tom.

“Hey, sorry. Wasn’t expectin’ you. Thought somebody had the wrong apartment number,” he says. 

“Nah, I should’ve called first. I—”

“Forget it,” Detective West says, reaching out a fumbling hand for Tom’s shoulder, “c’mon in. Lemme get you a glass of water.”

Tom follows him into the warm apartment, stepping into the living room as Roland grabs a glass off the coffee table and takes it to the kitchen. He’s casual about it, but it’s not like Tom couldn’t already smell the whiskey on his breath. Maybe _wasn’t expecting you_ was code for spending his night drinking. He feels embarrassed, like he’s interrupted something important.

“Sorry,” Tom says as Detective West sets two glasses down onto the coffee table, “for not letting you know I was driving over.”

“Forget ‘bout it, Tom,” Detective West repeats as he slumps back onto the couch. His gaze drifts across Tom’s face. “Everything okay?”

“I—just,” Tom stumbles over his words, dragging a hand across his mouth in frustration. 

“Bad night, huh?”

“Yeah,” Tom sighs, dropping his elbows onto his knees. “Just this time of year’s all.”

Detective West nods, takes a drink of his water. Some of it spills, drips its way down his chin. He wipes a hand across his mouth. Watching him—moving sluggish, eyes at half-mast—Tom realizes he might be more drunk than he first thought.

There’s a long moment of silence before Detective West’s eyes fix back on him. “Shit, your sponsor busy tonight or somethin’?”

The words drop like a weight in Tom’s stomach. Maybe they aren’t anything like friends at all, he realizes, stupidly, too late. Last month, at the diner, maybe it wasn’t so much catching up as Roland checking in. A courtesy call. Maybe he’d thought one month sober meant Tom’d be out of his hair for good, finally.

It must be showing on his face because Detective West stumbles to add, “I just meant I probably ain’t the shining beacon of sobriety myself this moment.”

“That’s not—I don’t expect you to be—” Tom clenches his hands on his knees, forces the words out past the lump in his throat, “I came by because I needed a friend.”

Detective West’s expression flickers, startled. He drops his head, dragging a hand over his forehead. “Fuck. I didn’t mean it like that. Tom.”

“Look, if I’m just some kinda chore—” Tom slides to the edge of the armchair, ready to flee. “—then I’ll just—”

“Tom.” Detective West drops his hand onto Tom’s knee, squeezes a little too hard. He sighs. “It ain’t like that. I took some pills ‘cause my leg was acting up. Followed ‘em up with a couple drinks when I shouldn’t’ve. I’m just—probably not fit for company is all.”

His expression is cracked wide open, pupils no more than pinpoints as he looks at Tom. He’s leaned too far into his space, his grip still tight on Tom’s knee like he’s worried Tom might jump up and leave after all. Impossible not to believe him when he looks so sincere, even swaying as he is.

“I meant what I said before. ‘Bout what I said about you comin’ by any time you need to. Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it, Tom.”

—

_**1986** _

By the time he buys the trailer, Tom’s earned his one year sobriety chip; he keeps it tucked in his wallet, for when he needs the reminder, though those moments are getting further and further between as time goes by. The trailer’s nothing to write home about, but he’s happy to be out of the cramped, dimly lit apartment he’d been staying in. No more shared walls or hearing the neighbors’ children running back and forth, shouting. A window with actual trees visible outside of it, instead of just a view of the next building over’s brickwork. It’s a couple Saturdays after he’s moved—though he’s hardly unpacked because he’s been busy with work, taking double shifts when the boss lets him (it’s an ingrained habit by now—if he keeps occupied, there won’t be time to think)—when there’s a knock on his door. He opens it to find Roland standing there on his porch, potted plant in hand. 

“Hey, Tom. Hope I ain’t interrupting. I probably should’ve called first,” he says, smiling. Raises the pot. “Just wanted to drop off a belated housewarming gift.”

Tom blinks down at the cheery little plant in its speckled ceramic container. “Nah, you’re not interrupting nothing. If you wanna come in.”

He watches as Roland limps past to set it on the bare kitchen counter, a scene so surreal—five years ago, he couldn’t have imagined Detective West in his home under friendly circumstances, never mind with houseplant in hand—he has to fight down a bark of uncomfortable laughter. His mouth twitches as Roland turns back around.

“I ain’t much of a green thumb.”

“Shit, well, it’s same kind this girl at the station’s got on her desk and hell if I’ve ever seen her water the damn thing,” Roland says. “Normally, housewarming gift, I’d just get—well, I mean, I asked Lori for advice. Throw out the plant if you want and call it a vase.”

Tom pushes his hands into his pockets and tries for a smile as Roland’s gaze sweeps the room. Nothing much to look at: a matching couch and chair he got down at the local Salvation Army, a short stack of boxes he hasn’t gotten around to unpacking. His eyes catch on the framed cross-stitch, the only thing decorating the otherwise empty walls. 

“See you’ve started in on decorating, anyway,” Roland says.

“Was a gift from Margaret. You want coffee? Haven’t gotten around to getting a machine yet, all I got’s instant.”

“Sure. Can’t be any worse than the shit they got us drinking down at the station,” Roland says easily, coming over to lean against the counter. Tom’s suddenly aware of his lack of chairs and a table; it hadn’t seemed like an issue before, eating his meals sat on the couch with the plate in his lap. “Lucy’s friend, right? She still in the area?”

Tom grunts in confirmation as he starts up the kettle. Margaret had been a friendly face when he’d first made his return to Arkansas, happier to see him on her doorstep than he’d expected her to be. She’d always been Lucy’s friend, not his, though he’d appreciated how well she got along with the kids. He got the feeling her friendliness was more about missing Lucy and the kids than anything (They’d been sat around her cluttered dining room table with mugs of tea when she’d asked, “You ever hear from her? Me neither. Not since she left, anyway. I sure do hope she’s alright.”), but he hardly minded. It wasn’t like he had many friendly faces to welcome him back.

“Shit, son,” Roland says, grin flashing across his face, “between me ‘n her, we’ll have you featured in _Better Homes and Gardens_ in no time.”

Tom sets two mugs down in front of Roland and spoons coffee crystals into them. Digs out a container of powdered creamer he barely uses himself and places it down too. They lean together against the countertop, trading small talk over their coffee: all the construction going on downtown, Roland’s promotion to sergeant (“Mostly just means extra paperwork.”), how Tom’s liking the new place.

“It’s nice. Spacious,” says Roland.

“C’mon,” Tom says, setting his mug down, “I’ll give you the grand tour if you want.”

They abandon their mugs on the counter as Roland trails behind him. Tom feels a little stupid for having offered; it’s hardly worth showing off, just a few bare rooms and half-unpacked boxes. The rest of the place is about as lacking in furniture as the front room was. There’s nothing to say except what’s already obvious—“bathroom there,” “closet here.” He doesn’t even have a bedframe yet, just his made-up mattress resting on the bedroom floor. It’s pressed against the wall with just a wooden crucifix hanging above it. He falters a bit, feeling idiotic for having felt somehow _proud_ of the new place, and then Roland’s hand is on his arm.

“Hey,” Roland says, his voice low and soft, turning him around.

Tom’s breath catches in his throat. Roland’s eyes are heavy on him. A pause, and then Roland’s pressing their mouths together. His hand lands warm on Tom’s neck, fingers spanning over his jumping pulse, tongue pressing hot into Tom’s own mouth. Tom backs up until he hits the edge of the mattress, lets Roland press him down onto it in the dimming evening light. He has a brief moment to be glad he at least hung the curtains and made the bed and then Roland’s pulling at his shirt, lips on his throat. There’s a moment where they both pull back to catch their breath; Roland’s flushed, his hair ruffled, and Tom’s sure he hasn’t fared much better, but Roland’s still got his eyes fixed on him. His gaze so steady Tom can hardly stand it, rolling over rather than meet it, letting Roland pull him up onto his hands and knees. They undo their clothes just enough for it to work. A moment to dig lube and a condom from one of the boxes hanging open by the door and then they’re fitting themselves back together, Roland pressing into him slow and steady.

“Easy,” he whispers, breath warm against the back of Tom’s neck. He strokes one hand beneath his undershirt, along Tom’s trembling side. “Easy, Tom. That’s it.”

Tom bites down on a groan, presses his face into his own sheets. The sound of his name on Roland’s lips pushes him over the edge as much as anything, Roland’s hand tight on his hip all the while.

They dress in silence, afterwards, backs to one another. They don’t talk about it. They never do. They don’t see each other that often; when they do, sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t. Tom lets it happen and does his best not to think about it. He doesn’t think about—(Lori)—any of it. (He compartmentalizes. He did back then and he does now, only different. If back then he kept his attractions firmly locked down and hidden away, even from himself, now he lets Roland fuck him into his own mattress but keeps it separate. They’re friends and sometimes they fuck. They don’t talk about it. Tom doesn’t think about it. It is what it is. He’s not a good man, but maybe he’s not a bad one either. Maybe, at the heart of it, he’s just a sinner like every other man. And if God loves anything, it’s a sinner.) He buckles his belt and excuses himself to the bathroom.

He locks the door behind himself and gets cleaned up, then finds himself staring at his own reflection over the sink. His hair’s a mess and his mouth is swollen. He shaved this morning and all it’s done is expose his skin to get scratched raw by Roland’s own stubble. There’s a reddening spot at the base of his throat where Roland’s teeth had sunk in that he presses his fingers to. Can’t help but think of a night when Lucy came home with hickeys peppering her neck and held her head in defiance and dared him to hit her. He didn’t. They screamed themselves hoarse instead and when she smashed one glass on the floor, then another, he stormed from the house. Left the kids silent in their bedrooms and spent the night asleep in his car under a streetlight at the local park. He pushes the memory from his mind as he buttons his flannel shirt up, covering the spot.

When he steps out of the bathroom, there’s no sign of Roland. He feels the first patter of anxiety in his chest until he spots Roland’s coat still thrown over the kitchen counter beside the coffee creamer. Roland himself is visible out the back window, cigarette in one hand and probably cold mug of coffee in the other, leaning on the railing. He looks unrattled, about as put together as when he arrived, just a few more buttons undone, shirt a little rumpled, a strand of hair come loose from its gel. Nothing someone would notice unless they were looking for it. Tom swallows, rights himself, and steps outside.

“Got a nice view,” Roland declares, turning toward him to smile. He gestures out at the trees, the doves cooing from their branches. The little park across the way with its granite fountain, the neighbors’ chickens pecking at the grass. “Open. Enough space to breath.”

“Yeah,” Tom agrees, swallowing, looking out at the neighborhood rather than meet his eyes, “it ain’t bad.”

“What’s with that?” Roland asks, pointing a thumb backwards toward the old, low table sitting on the porch.

“Hm? Old owners left it behind. Thought maybe I could fix it up,” Tom says, nudging it with the toe of his boot, setting it wobbling on uneven legs. “Should probably quit kidding myself and drag it out to the curb.”

“Hey, now, it ain’t in too bad shape,” Roland says, stroking a hand along its worn, peeling surface like petting an old dog. “Good construction. Fix the leg, sand it down a little, maybe some stain. Good as new.” He grins, rapping his knuckles against the tabletop.

“I ain’t much of a carpenter. At this rate, might be better off just dragging the damn thing in and using it as is. Can stick a magazine under the short leg.”

Roland pulls a face at that. “Hey, what if I come on over and help you out with it? I’ve got a table saw and a sander stored away in my garage spot. Hell, might even have some stain in there somewhere.”

“Didn’t know you liked woodworking,” says Tom, pushing his hands into his pockets. The statement peaks his attention, he can’t help it—it’s one of those moments he realizes just how little he knows about Detective West. He knows he likes westerns, his apartment scattered with well thumbed paperbacks and videotapes in worn-out boxes alike, but he supposes that wouldn’t be a hard guess to make just looking at the man’s perpetual cowboy boots. Assumes he must like cooking by the way he hums cheerfully to himself as he stirs each time he’s cooked for Tom on those nights he’s stayed over. Touching up old wood furniture for fun is a new one.

The corners of Roland’s mouth quirk up. “My ma always had a thing for getting a good deal, y’know. Thrift shops, antique stores. Used to drag me along to the flea market with her once a month. Half the shit we pulled home wouldn’t have been usable as is. So, how ‘bout it? Check the calendar, see what day we both got free and I’ll drag over what we need.”

Tom hesitates. “I mean, it’s your days off, I’m sure you got somethin’ better—”

“Forget it,” Roland says, grinning, smacking his hands together loudly to knock off the paint chips. “You’ll be doing me a favor. I hardly ever get to use that shit nowadays for fear of pissing off the neighbors. Though maybe I should, just to get back at that fucker with the little yappy dog two apartments down.”

“Was thinking ‘bout getting a dog myself. Now that I got the space,” Tom says, scratching at his jaw. “Could use the company.”

“Really?” Roland asks.

“Uh huh. Thinkin’ a Jack Russell. Maybe a chihuahua,” Tom replies dryly.

“Ah, fuck you, man,” Roland scoffs, though he can’t hold back the smile pulling at the corners of his lips. Tom can’t help but feel pleased at the sight; supposes he likes knowing it makes Roland happy to see him joking. Supposes it’s a sign that he’s doing better. Not like he used to joke around much, back in the day.

“You better watch what you say, or I’ll bring you one as a second housewarming gift,” Roland says. “So, was that a yes or a no?”

By the time he walks Roland back out front to his car, he’s more or less agreed to it and Roland’s promising to give him a call later, leaning out his car window with a smile.

—

True to his word, Roland pulls up bright and early one Friday morning, dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt. He starts unloading his car. Tom’s out the door and down the front steps to haul the table saw out before Roland can handle it himself (“I got one bum leg, I’m not a complete invalid, you know that, right?” Roland scoffs, but stands aside nonetheless). They set up out back on an old, paint-spotted tarp, running power cords up to the outlet on the back porch. They set the table on the tarp, which only looks all the worse for being in the sunlight, peeling paint and scratches all laid bare. Tom eyeballs it, picking a loose flake of paint free with his thumbnail as Roland sets down a rattling cardboard box.

“Not sure if any of these stains are still good. If they’ve all gone to shit, we can take a quick trip down to the hardware store,” Roland says. “Should have more than enough damn sandpaper though.”

They get the sander up and running, settling into a rhythm. Tom works off the worst of the paint and damage with the sander, while Roland goes back over the areas by hand with a finer grit. He’s more of a perfectionist about it than Tom would’ve expected, but maybe an eye for detail just comes with the territory of being a detective. It’s strangely zen-like, though, working back and forth, even if the sander’s so loud they can’t talk over the racket. The sawdust lands in dusty piles around them, the mild spring breeze blowing it out and scattering it about the lawn. The weather’s good, the spring sun shining warm against their backs as they work. Tom knows this is the sort of thing where you’d offer a friend a beer, but it ain’t like he keeps alcohol around nowadays, so they’ve got two cans of cola sweating on the porch steps.

The table’s been sanded bare by the time the day slides into early afternoon, ready for them to heft it up and onto the table saw’s surface. Sitting there it’s easy to tell which leg is hanging up and off the ground. Roland settles into measuring each of the legs, grumbling and muttering under his breath as he takes and retakes his measurements.

“Shit,” Roland mumbles to himself again. He licks his thumb to smudge out the pencil marks on the table leg and starts to redo them.

“You know this ain’t a case, right? Not like you mess this up, the wrong guy goes to prison.”

“Nah, but you get stuck with a wobbly table. ‘S probably worse.”

Tom snorts and checks his watch. “Hey, how ‘bout I go pick us up some lunch? Maybe by the time I get back, you’ll be ready to actually cut the damn thing.”

Roland doesn’t look up from his measurements, but a grin slices across his face nonetheless. “Alright, alright. Go on, then.”

Tom drives over to the nearest strip mall just past the edge of the neighborhood. He hasn’t done much driving around since moving beyond commuting to work and picking up groceries, but he knows the little Italian joint on the corner here sells passable sandwiches and pizza. Isn’t until he’s driving back with a paper bag of food jostling around in the passenger seat that he realizes he never asked what Roland wanted, just went and ordered for him, knowing exactly what he’d probably want. That he could easily order for the man in any diner or sandwich joint or coffee shop. The thought stupidly raises a heat in his stomach that he tries to ignore. It ain’t like knowing how the man likes his eggs or the amount of sugar he takes in his coffee means he knows him well—hell, he didn’t even know Roland liked woodworking until a few weeks earlier. But still. Maybe he knows the man better than he thinks.

He twitches one shoulder up as he parks, like he can shrug the thought off bodily. When he comes around back, Roland’s sitting on the porch steps sipping his cola, tape measure clipped onto his belt. He sets his soda can down and waves Tom over to the table.

“Alright, c’mere. How’s that look?”

Tom eyeballs the lines drawn across the three longer table legs. “Looks fine to me.”

“Now, you sayin’ that ‘cause it actually looks fine, or ‘cause you just want me to hurry it up?”

“Gimme that then,” Tom huffs, reaching out to trade the bag of food for the tape measure. He squints as he checks and double-checks it against Roland’s pencil marks.

“Looks fine to me,” Tom repeats, reaching over to clip the tape measure back onto Roland’s belt before he can think better of it. There’s the warmth of Roland’s hip against his fingers, the faint scent of his cologne. Then he pulls back, like he hadn’t overstepped at all. He’s normally not so bold, never mind out in the open like this. He takes the bag back from Roland’s fingers, steps around him. “Suppose we can get it trimmed down after we eat.”

Roland works his jaw and swallows before moving to join him. “Sure.”

They eat together on the back porch, sitting in a couple of cheap lawn chairs. There isn’t much talking and the neighborhood is sedate around them—cars starting up or driving by, other voices in distance, but not much else. Tom catches Roland’s eyes on him a few times, though he’s casual about it, his gaze sliding just as easily back off him like Tom just happened to be there. His fingers still feel warm where they had brushed Roland’s side.

“I’ll go ahead and start the saw up,” Roland says as he finishes off his food, pushing himself up from the chair.

Tom finishes off his sandwich as Roland gets started, then resigns himself to standing by the wayside, leaned up against the porch railing, as Roland shaves each of the three longer legs down. It’s not like it’s that bad, getting to watch Roland as he works, tanned forearms flexing. There’s sweat around the collar of his t-shirt, the white cotton gone translucent and yeah, it’s not a bad look on him. Ain’t like he hasn’t seen the other man naked before, but that’s different—the two of them coming together in dark rooms, quick and dirty. Not much time to spend just looking. There’s a certain novelty to having Roland in his own backyard, dressed casual in shirt and jeans, working together. Tom bites down on the inside of his mouth as he realizes the word he might be looking for is domestic.

“C’mon over here,” Roland calls over the saw as it whirs to a stop, breaking Tom from his thoughts. “Let’s see how this is.”

They flip the table upright to check, Roland shaking his head and starting the saw back up. He shaves a little more off. They set the table upright again, Roland putting one hand flat on its surface to press down. This time it doesn’t budge.

“Alright, then,” Roland says, grinning, “let’s get it back down on the tarp.”

They drag it back over onto the ground. Roland gets on one knee to look it over, saying, “Think we can go ahead with the stain once we wipe it off.”

When he makes to get up, he falters, left wobbling on his knees. Tom steps closer, holding out his hand. Roland takes it, his palm heavy and warm in Tom’s own, gritty with sawdust. He lets Tom pull him to his feet with a grunt, wavering a moment, their arms bumping together. He rights himself, claps Tom on the shoulder.

“Thanks. Feel like a goddamn turtle on its back sometimes.”

“Why don’t you go sit? I can manage this bit.”

Tom strips off his flannel shirt and hangs it from the railing as Roland drops heavy into the lawn chair. They’re both silent as he runs the tack cloth over the table, quiet enough that he wonders if Roland’s drifted off. Looks up to find Roland slouched in the chair, his gaze fixed steady and dark on Tom.

Then Roland’s looking away, saying, “Should be able to get the stain on with enough time for it to dry a little before sundown. Probably set it up here and rig the tarp up over it to keep it dry.”

There’s not much left to do after that but handle the stain. Roland pries the lid off an old can and stirs it around, pronouncing it acceptable for use. They work together on the ground, knocking into each other more than a few times. The air’s cooling down around them, sounds of cars pulling into nearby driveways as people arrive home from work. Tom’s considering inviting him to stay for dinner as they finish up, even though it’ll have to be more takeout. There’s nothing acceptable in his cabinets to cook up beyond plain pasta.

Roland beats him to the punch, though, getting up to stand, unaided this time, though he’s clearly favoring his good leg more than usual. “I’m afraid I’m gonna have to take off once we get this up to the porch. Got an early start tomorrow. Can throw a couple more coats on that if you want it darker. Got a can of polyurethane in the box too.”

“Yeah, sure,” Tom agrees, “I think I can handle that much myself. Don’t worry ‘bout the table. I can lug it back up there. Lemme help you pack up.”

Together, they put Roland’s stuff back in the trunk of his car. Tom’s thinking about how he’ll spend the rest of the night—get the table covered up and then heat up yesterday’s leftovers, watch the television and probably go to bed early. The sun’s barely a sliver on the edge of the horizon when Roland slams the trunk back shut. It’s darker out here in Tom’s new neighborhood, no streetlights around, just lit-up yellow windows of other trailers. The air’s cooler now, a night chill coming in on the breeze. Roland turns to him, car keys jingling in his hand.

“Thanks again for the help.”

Roland smiles and claps a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, don’t mention it.”

He isn’t expecting it when Roland pulls him into a hug, his stubble scratching past Tom’s neck as he tucks his chin over Tom’s shoulder. Tom reaches out an awkward hand to pat Roland on the back, but then his hand stills, rests unmoving on the warm expanse of his back instead.

“You ever need any help around the new place, you lemme know,” Roland adds, pulling away, though his hands are still on Tom’s arms, palms warm through his flannel shirt. He flashes an easy grin. “I don’t mind playing house now and then.”

Tom feels his throat dry up. “Sure,” he manages to choke out.

And then Roland’s stepping away and going around to the driver’s side of his car. Tom raises his hand before climbing the porch steps back into his dark trailer. Pushes the kitchen curtain aside to watch as Roland’s tail lights grower smaller in the darkness. Lets the heavy beat of his heart calm down.

—

_**1985** _

It’s becoming pretty clear Roland’s in no shape to do much else but sit there and try not to nod off. He’s trying to keep up a conversation, but half of it’s too mumbled for Tom to make out and his head keeps dipping, bit by bit, ‘til his chin’s nearly on his chest.

“Hey,” Tom mutters, leaning over to shake Roland’s shoulder. “C’mon, why don’t we get you to bed?”

“Shit,” Roland curses, head jerking back up. He pushes himself up and off the couch with some difficulty. “’M sorry. Caught me on a bad day ‘s all.”

“Told you it’s fine.” Tom reaches out to support him when Roland stumbles a little on his feet, keeping him upright as they walk toward Roland’s bedroom.

He deposits Roland onto his bed, still sitting upright in his work clothes. Roland drags his hands over his face. At the very least, Tom can kneel on the floor to take off his boots for him; it’s not like Roland hasn’t done it for him before. He hears the click of Roland’s throat as he swallows, focuses instead on pulling his boots off and setting them side by side next to the nightstand. He looks up to find Roland staring down at him, expression unreadable in the dark. He’s got one hand still resting on Roland’s ankle, unthinking. He pulls it away and stands. Roland’s gaze follows his movements, the lamp from the living room casting just enough light so his furrowed brow is visible.

“I still think about it sometimes,” Roland says, so soft it’s nearly a whisper.

“What’s that?” Tom asks.

“Woodard. Vietnam—shit, I saw things, guys brought back in pieces,” Roland rasps, “but it’s different. When it’s right there. Not being able to stop it.”

“Yeah,” Tom murmurs, like he knows. Which he doesn’t, except he can imagine it’s something similar to being brought into the coroner’s to identify Will, drained of life and bloodless. To being handed a photo of Julie’s burnt scrap of sweater, the sweater he’d bought her last fall for school. To sitting inside his house, smoking, cops outside, waiting for word instead of being out there looking for his kids himself.

“Hey.” Roland’s fingers fumble for Tom’s shirt cuff, catching around his wrist. “You stayin’? Just ‘cause I’m—don’t mean you can’t stay.”

“Sure.” Tom swallows and nods. Roland’s hand is a circle of heat around his wrist. He gently dislodges his grip. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

There’s no response in return. Roland is still sitting up, but half-slumped, his chin resting on his chest. Tom can’t tell if he’s already asleep or not. He makes to step quietly from the room, but stops in the doorway to look back at Roland’s dark silhouette on the bed. “Thanks, Detective West.”

“Roland,” he says from the bed. Awake after all. “If we’re friends, you call me Roland.”

**Author's Note:**

> Roland being into woodworking is taken from one of the Season 3 deleted scenes that shows he has a workshop set up at his home with Lori in 1990.


End file.
